Charmed, I'm Sure

by Sarah Darer Littman

  “Actually, I have. Someone was talking about it in first period.”

  I don’t tell her that someone was yours truly.

  “I never heard of it before,” Katie says. “It’s probably some stupid made-up holiday just to sell more greeting cards or something.”

  Well, she got the made-up part right.

  And then Nicole joins us, and she’s carrying one of those huge oatmeal raisin cookies they sell at the school café.

  “Guys, look! Aria Thornebriar just gave me a cookie!” she exclaims. “She said it was for Kookie Kindness Day. I’m going to share it with you guys, because I’m paying it forward.”

  “How come no one has given me a cookie?” Katie complains. “Don’t I deserve some Kookie Kindness? I’m starting to feel like a loser.”

  “Now you know how I feel when it comes to a date for the Fall Festive,” I mutter.

  Don’t whine, Fair One, your prince will come

  But not until your work is done.

  Smooth hair, soft lips, and skin so clear.

  Then surely will your date appear.

  Is it possible to muzzle an inanimate object? Putting that on my Things to Google list.

  “I’m sure you’ll get a date by next Saturday,” Nicole says in a sympathetic tone, which is easy for her, because she’s already going with Dave Theis. “And, Katie, didn’t I just say I’m sharing my Kookie Kindness with you?”

  “I guess,” Katie says. “But Quinn better give me a cookie, is all I can say.”

  “But this isn’t supposed to be like Valentine’s Day,” I protest. “It’s an act of kindness to a random person you’re trying to reach out to, not to your significant other.”

  I can’t believe I am making up new rules to the fake day that I made up this morning in first period. I am turning into Little Miss Liar McPantsonfire.

  “Whatever,” Katie grumbles, picking off another piece of oatmeal raisin cookie. “I still think he should give me one. Just because.”

  This whole thing is getting out of hand. What if Quinn doesn’t give Katie a cookie, and she gets mad at him, and they break up and don’t go to the dance? It would be all my fault for making up this stupid Kookie Kindness Day, because Damien Wolfe asked me why I was giving him cookies, and I didn’t want to tell him the truth.

  “Why don’t you just give him one?” I ask. “Uncle Herb says the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

  Katie’s face brightens.

  “That’s a great idea!” she says, getting two dollars out of her wallet. “I’m going to get him a chocolate chip cookie.”

  She goes off to the line to make her purchase, leaving Nicole and me to finish the cookie and eat our lunches.

  “Katie might think it’s stupid, but I love Kookie Kindness Day,” Nicole says. “I was in a bad mood this morning, because my brother took so long in the shower that I couldn’t wash my hair, and then I ripped my tights, because I was putting them on in such a hurry, and then I got a B minus on my science test and I thought I’d done better. . . .” She paused for a breath. “So when Aria Thornebriar handed me the cookie, just because it was Kookie Kindness Day, it turned my whole day around.”

  Huh. I can’t really hate my stupid, made-up day if it’s turned Nicole’s day around like this, can I?

  And as I walk through the hallways that afternoon, I notice that the atmosphere is different than it usually is. People are more animated, smiling at each other more, and kids who usually don’t hang out are talking to one another.

  Jenna Peasely gives a cookie to Mr. Scott, the janitor, and thanks him for keeping the school clean. This is Jenna Peasely, resident student body activist, who protests everything from the roughness of the toilet paper to the temperature of the water in the drinking fountains. I guess you can’t blame her for being sensitive to things like that. When your mother is such a princess she can’t sleep a wink all night and is black-and-blue because of one tiny pea placed under twenty mattresses, you’re bound to end up with a few sensory issues.

  When I walk past the office on the way out of school, Jackson Greenleaf, who spends half his life in there driving Mrs. Dickinson crazy, because he’s always being sent to the principal for climbing things he shouldn’t (his dad was the one who climbed the beanstalk, so I guess it’s in the blood) is giving her a cookie. I feel like I’m walking through an alternative universe of happy, which is really cool—except that it was all started because I lied. Is it okay to feel less guilty about lying if it helped make the day better for others?

  That’s when I realize that Sophie McKee is walking in front of me, talking to her friends. And that’s when I overhear her say, “Then he asked me to the Fall Festive!”

  My heart sinks. Does she mean . . . ?

  “You’re going to the Fall Festive with Damien Wolfe!” Sophie’s friend exclaims. “Awesome!”

  “I know, right?” Sophie says. “Kookie Kindness Day has turned out to be the best day ever!”

  For everyone else, maybe. For me, not so much.

  It’s a week and two days till the Fall Festive, and I’m down to one date candidate, Hunter Farthington, the guy who thinks people from Ohio are called “Oheinies.”

  Luckily, I get a seat on the bus going home. I take the jeweled compact out of my backpack. Opening it, I see Mirror Girl reflected back at me.

  I wonder if the Mirror answers questions, or if it only gives out unsolicited advice. It’s worth a try.

  Hey, Mirror, how come I can’t get a date for the dance? I think.

  At first I don’t hear anything, and I wonder if now that I actually want to hear the Mirror’s advice, it’s finally stopped talking to me. But then it starts speaking up.

  Princess Fair, if thou must ask

  Then pray, perform this simple task.

  Compose a poem, in proper form,

  Not common speech as is the norm.

  So, does that mean I have to think of a rhyme every time I want to ask the Mirror a question? Is the Mirror the ghost of a frustrated English teacher or something?

  I rack my brain to think of a way to ask the question in verse. Poetry has never been one of my strengths.

  Magic Mirror, I need a date

  For my school dance before it’s too late.

  Tell me, Mirror, bring me joy.

  How do I find my Fall Festive boy?

  A few seconds later I hear the Mirror respond.

  With shining hair and softest skin

  Your reign as fairest will soon begin.

  Stand straight, don’t slouch, and then you’ll see

  The Fairest in the Land you’ll be.

  Let me get this straight. The Mirror’s saying I don’t have a date to the Fall Festive because I have bad posture?

  I want to ask for clarification, but I’m too tired to make up another rhyme. Plus, there’s a shifty-looking guy sitting in the seat across from me eyeing the jeweled compact in a way that’s making me nervous. This is New York City, after all. I snap the compact shut and shove it to the bottom of my backpack for safety, hoping he gets off the bus before I do. Luckily, he does.

  Whew! That was a major breach in city smarts. I’m turning into Mom. Stranger Danger, Rosie! Stranger Danger!

  When I get home, after I finish my homework, I practice walking up and down the hallway outside my room with a book on my head, just in case the Mirror is right and my dateless state is something to do with my slouching. It’s just my luck that Dad happens to come home and catch me doing it.

  “Is this some newfangled way of studying?” he asks, leaning against the wall with a huge grin on his face. “You walk around with the book on your head, expecting to absorb the knowledge by osmosis?”

  I snatch the book off my head and scowl.

  “No. I’m trying to improve my posture.”

  He pushes away from the wall and comes to kiss me on the forehead. “You know, you could just stand up straight instead of walking around with a book on your head.”

&n
bsp; “Wow, Dad. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “What’s brought on this sudden concern about posture, honey?” Dad asks. “Did something happen today?”

  Part of me wants to tell Dad about how following the uncles’ advice backfired on me today, and about the Mirror and what it said, but then I’m afraid he’ll give me advice of his own. I can just imagine what it would be: Go lie in the middle of Central Park in a glass coffin, looking so beautiful that a handsome prince can’t help himself from kissing you.

  Not the most practical advice for a twenty-first-century teen girl living in New York City. Or, alternatively, he’ll think I’m going wacko like Stepgrandma.

  So I just give him a hug and say, “Oh, nothing.” I put on my best Mom-imitation voice. “I just want to be my best self, the CharmingLifestyles.com way!”

  Dad laughs.

  “You really are your mother’s daughter,” he says.

  But Mom got her handsome prince. And with a week and two days to go till the Fall Festive, I still have no date.

  Chapter Eight

  I MAKE A SPECIAL EFFORT with my appearance the next morning. With only one date candidate left, I have to step up my efforts. It’s time to take this whole Fairest in the Land thing more seriously. When I’m dressed, I dig out the compact from the bottom of my backpack, survey myself in the Mirror, and pose the question:

  Mirror Dear, Hello, good day,

  Please tell me if I look okay.

  The dance is soon, I need a date.

  Help me before it is too late.

  I know, I’m no Shakespeare. I stink at poetry. I just hope my feeble rhymes are good enough for the Mirror.

  Crickets . . .

  My mouth is dry as I wait for the Mirror’s verdict. I wonder if this is how Stepgrandma felt as she gazed at her reflection, waiting to hear if she really was the Fairest in the Land or if she came in second again.

  That’s when it hits me—the Mirror’s opinion is starting to matter. The heavy gold compact is shaking in my hand as I wait to see if I pass muster.

  You are the fairest, my Princess Rose.

  Now the rest of the world shall know.

  You shall not lack for dancing dates.

  In fact, too many shall be your fate.

  Are we talking boys? I snap the compact shut. I’ve got exactly one date candidate left, and he’s not exactly promising, so I don’t know what “too many shall be your fate” is supposed to mean.

  Maybe the Mirror is like Dad and needs coffee before it makes sense in the morning.

  Now I’m starting to think that an inanimate object needs coffee to wake up. . . .

  Deciding I’m definitely going crazy like my stepgrandmother, I pick up my backpack, call good-bye to my parents, and head for school.

  Damien Wolfe comes up to me in first period and thanks me for choosing him as my Kookie Kindness Day recipient yesterday.

  “I mean, it’s not like you know me that well, and . . . it was cool of you to do that,” he says. “It worked some really good karma.”

  Yeah, for everyone else, I think.

  But I plaster on a smile the Mirror would be proud of and say, “I’m happy to hear that.”

  Then he hands me a folded up piece of paper.

  “I drew this for you.”

  I unfold it, and there’s an original Damien Wolfe cartoon drawing of me with a cookie—which makes me look way better than I normally do, almost like a superhero version of me, that starts this big chain of smiley faces leading to other cookies and more smiley faces. A lump rises in my throat.

  “Wow. That’s . . . amazing,” I manage to choke out around the lump.

  “I just wanted to do something nice for you, because your giving me the cookies yesterday morning gave me the courage to finally ask Sophie to the Fall Festive,” Damien confesses. “And she said yes!”

  I pretend to be surprised. “I’m so happy for you!”

  Funnily enough, I don’t have to pretend the happy part as much as I thought I would.

  On the way to my second period class, Quinn Fairchild pulls me to one side in the hall. I figure he wants to ask me something about Katie—like what kind of flowers she likes or something.

  But he keeps his hand on my elbow as he leans up against the lockers, and he’s standing a little too close for comfort; so close I can smell orange juice on his breath.

  Quinn should brush his teeth after breakfast, or he’s going to get cavities, I can’t help thinking.

  “Listen, Rosie, how about we go to the Fall Festive?” Quinn says.

  I burst out laughing, and his hand tightens on my elbow. That’s when I notice the shocked, angry look on his face and realize he was serious.

  Pulling my elbow out of his grasp, I hiss, “Are you crazy? You already have a date, or have you forgotten that minor detail?”

  Quinn tries to bluff his way out of it, like he’s forgotten Katie and I are best friends.

  “Who?”

  “Katie Clark. You know, my best friend?”

  “Oh. Well . . .” His brow wrinkles as he works his brain trying to come up with some believable excuse, like that’s even possible. “Katie and I talked about going to the dance, but it wasn’t, yanno, a hundred percent official.”

  “That’s funny,” I say. “Because I’m pretty sure Katie thinks it’s a hundred percent official. In fact, I’m one hundred percent sure she thinks it is.” I turn to go to class, but stop to look back at him over my shoulder and add, “There’s no way I’d go out with my best friend’s date. No way, nohow.”

  “I didn’t know you were best friends,” Quinn says.

  “Then maybe you should show a little more interest in your date,” I say before stomping off down the hall.

  Worrying whether I should tell Katie what happened finally pushes anxiety about not having a date for the Fall Festive out of the top spot in the Things Rosie Is Freaking Out About list.

  Katie’s been super excited about going to the dance with Quinn. It’s been the main topic of conversation ever since he asked her. What if I tell her, and it ruins everything? But what if I don’t tell her, and then Quinn ends up hurting her because he’s such a jerk?

  I still haven’t made up my mind when I get to the cafeteria. When I join Katie and Nicole at the table, Katie is in midsentence.

  “And I told Quinn that we should get matching roses—I’ll wear mine in my hair and he can wear his in his buttonhole. What do you think, white roses or pink?”

  “White,” Nicole says. “I can’t see Quinn agreeing to anything pink.”

  Katie sighs.

  “I know. I wish he would, because pink is my favorite color.”

  I open my mouth to tell her that Quinn is a jerk who asked me to the dance after second period even though he was already going with her, but what comes out instead is, “You could always weave two miniature roses into your braid, one white and one pink.”

  “That’s a fab idea, Rosie!” Katie exclaims. “I mean, I guess I should probably wait till I get the dress anyway. Oh, I’ve made a list of all the places I want to look on Saturday.”

  She whips out her phone and starts telling us all the stores we’re going to hit on our Quest for the Dress.

  And just like that, my moment for honesty is gone. I’ll just have to hope that Quinn isn’t as much of a jerk as I think he is, and that no one ever finds out that he asked me to the dance.

  Mrs. Minnich gives back our Romeo and Juliet papers in Language Arts.

  “Refreshing analysis, Rosie,” she says, handing me back my response with a smile. I get an A minus and a smiley face.

  I’m glad I didn’t pretend to believe in all the love at first sight stuff to try to get a good grade and wrote what I really thought. So little about me feels honest right now.

  “I’ll be interested to hear your thoughts on ‘Annabel Lee,’” she says.

  We’ve started on our poetry unit, and the first poem we had to read was “Annabel Lee” by Edgar Allan Po
e. The speaker is obsessed with Annabel, this girl who is from a kingdom by the sea. They meet as kids, and of course the guy is totally in luuuurve with Annabel and claims that she’s just as obsessed with him. He says, “And this maiden she lived with no other thought / Than to love and be loved by me.” I’m like, seriously? All she ever thought about was loving him and being loved by him? She never thought, “I just read the best book EVER,” or “Wonder what my BFFs are doing down in the village? #Letshangout” or “Does this ego-driven creep really believe the only thing I think about is him? #Stalker.”

  I was worried they were all going to be like this until Mrs. Minnich assigned us “Sonnet 43” by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways,” she asks. Elizabeth B. B. loves purely and freely, “as men strive for right.” But even though her poet husband, Robert, was the love of her life, I can’t see Elizabeth B. B. having no other thought than to be loved by him. Because she wasn’t just writing poems, she was campaigning for the abolition of slavery, even though her family’s wealth had come from plantations in Jamaica that depended on it. All of that while she was sick with a lifelong chronic illness. Elizabeth Barrett Browning rocks.

  I haven’t run into Hunter Farthington all day, despite all my fashion-forward efforts, and it’s now only eight days till the dance. I need to find him. So, as soon as school lets out, I race to the hallway where his locker is and casually walk by. He’s hanging with his friends, and I just so happen to overhear Hunter saying he’s going to Starcups to get an iced mocha before practice. I decide immediately that’s where I’m going too.

  As I follow Hunter out of the building at a discreet distance, I feel like an undercover spy trailing another agent.

  Or, I realize to my horror, like a stalker. I don’t want to be like “Annabel Lee” guy. So, once we’re both out on the street, I scurry to catch up to him.

  “Hey, Hunter, what’s up? You heading to Starcups?”

  “Yeah,” he grunts, turning to acknowledge my presence and bashing me in the hip with his soccer bag.

  “Ow!”

  “Sorry.”